Sins of the Father
by svuxfanfic
Summary: Olivia goes into labor and finds herself identifying with her mother in ways she never hoped. Takes place in (an AU-ish) season 15.
1. Chapter 1

**As stated in the description, this is supposed to take place somewhere toward the end of season fifteen, but the events have changed. For the purposes of this one shot, Olivia became pregnant in the events of Surrender Benson and ran away soon after she discovered. She's been living on her own throughout her pregnancy, isolating herself from the life she left behind, and this story begins when she goes into labor. So... yep. Here's this. Hope you don't hate it (or me).**

* * *

The pain rips through you fiercely, starbursting from your core and consuming every inch of you as specks of light dance behind pinched eyelids. You cry out this time, but the sound is restrained, screeching through gritted teeth. You don't open your eyes, even as the agony ebbs back into the awaiting sea, your jaw unclenching as another bead of sweat dribbles down from your temple. You don't want to see them - the glaring white walls. They are too unflinching a reminder of the emptiness in the room. That much is your own fault.

Blood pulses back into colorless knuckles when you slacken your grip on the bedrail and release a shuddery breath. Then another. You know you only have a few moments of reprieve, so you hungrily soak up the precious seconds before they tick away, leaving a swell of nausea in their wake as the rumble of pain begins to build in your center once more.

A vicious cycle.

Just like what has become of your life.

When the pain rocks back against the shore, crashing into you with its violent spray, you arch your back against the bed. A tear leaks from the corner of your eye, and you suspect its provocation is not merely physical. How did you get here? Before long, the single strand of moisture has erupted with reckless abandon, breaking loose the shards of emotion that have congealed against the walls of your throat. It's a defeated cry. You barely recognize it as your own.

The pain retreats once again. But it doesn't. It never really has.

You don't even bother turning your head at the squeal of the iron rings against the curtain rod, all hope for a familiar face extinguished. You know better. The nurse busies herself around you, assessing charts and monitors with detached apathy, and while you find this to be unfit behavior for a labor and delivery nurse, it strikes you as perfectly appropriate that she has been assigned to your case. She manages to poke through your haze of misery, asking something about your contractions, but life intervenes with an emphatic response, another swell of agony tearing through your middle. She tells you you're ready, but you only believe her as it applies to the physical. And even then, you're not completely sold.

But the swarm of doctors file in anyway, like worker bees buzzing around a hive, and they fill the empty spaces of your head with mindless bumbling, words and actions that are just out of reach. A hand touches your arm and you flinch away, jerking your head upward without meeting their eyes. A kind voice tells you that they're going to move you now, but you can't respond because your jaw seems to be permanently locked in resistance to the pain. So you offer a nod, but it doesn't mean you're prepared when you feel them pulling at your legs, manipulating them into the cold stirrups. You turn your head away, pressing into the damp fabric of the pillow, and try not to cry. Try not to let his face enter your mind. Not now. God, please, not right now.

"Ms. Benson, we're going to have you start pushing on the count of three, okay? Ready?"

One.

Two.

* * *

 _The air in the room was far too frigid on your battered skin, as if each laceration supplied a portal for the cold to seep inside and chill you to the bone. The wispy hospital gown was insufficient to help you feel covered, and the growing sensation of exposure made your skin crawl. Drawing in a shaky breath, you curled your fingers around each opposite bicep to muster whatever semblance of warmth and security you could, carefully avoiding the spots where the worst of the burns and bruises abounded._

 _You jumped at the sound of the door cracking, eliciting a small gasp as the sudden motion tore into your ribs. Frightful eyes turned upward to greet the nurse. She was friendly enough, but she wore that same pitiful smile on her face as she worked. The same rehearsed mask that everyone seemed to have down. The kind that she would surely peel off when she got home, stripping herself of the long day and soaking for hours under the spray of water as she thought about the gruesome case. Your case. And she would remind herself how lucky she was that it wasn't her. And then she would feel clean again._

 _You knew because you understood. You did the same thing every day. Or you used to._

 _"Swabs and photos are finished," she tells you, as if you hadn't been present for the whole thing, as if you didn't know the routine by heart, "The doctor ordered a blood test to screen for STDs. Would you like th-"_

 _"Yes."_

 _You cut her off because you know what comes next, and while you can't face the words out loud, there's no question in your mind. The nurse gives you one last smile before she turns to the cabinet behind her, returning a short time later with a loaded tray. Your eyes immediately scan over to the tiny white pills in the cup, your heart leaping as you fight back the rising lump in your throat._

 _In the corner of the tray, your eyes catch the label printed on the side of the package, and a swell of dread overtakes you. 89% effective, up to 72 hours after unprotected intercourse. It wasn't news to you. In fact, the thought had weighed in the back of your mind for the better part of your time in captivity. That is, the part of your mind that actually believed there was a chance at survival. You think back to the first time he raped you. Quick and dirty while you cried drunken tears, a temporary release for him. In your own apartment, on your own bed. Nearly four days ago._

 _The timing was a stretch, having crossed over well into the "safety net" extension of five days instead of three, but a small part of you dared to hope that your age would factor in here. For once, as a blessing instead of a curse. It would be life's cruelest joke: To have entered the world a product of violence, lived an existence plagued by the taunt of barrenness, only to be impregnated by the very act that brought you here. You think you're going to be sick if you think about it for another second, so you don't waste any time before scooping the pill into your mouth and downing it in one swallow._

* * *

"Olivia, push!"

Your body trembles from the effort, fists tangling amongst the sheets as you let out a wordless cry. The sticky clumps of hair cling to your face, interlaced with the indistinguishable mixture of sweat and tears. You gasp for air but find that the insurmountable pain robs you of the luxury of a full breath.

"Again!" The voice at your feet demands, and you want to pass out.

"I can't," you sob, head thrashing in protest. A nurse grabs your hand, but you're too consumed by agony to pull away this time.

"Honey, I know it's hard, but you have to push," she chastises, "Do it for your baby."

Your heart tumbles at the thought, another escaped cry plunging from your lips. In all of nine months, you haven't quite been able to discern the meaning behind the flutter in your chest at the thought of the life growing inside you. The one trying to find its way into the world now. But you suspect it's suspended somewhere between love and fear. Whatever it is, it's enough to elicit another torturous strain from you, teeth gritting almost audibly against the pain. But the pressure at your groin is unrelenting.

"Please," you beg breathlessly. And you're not sure what you're begging for or to whom your plea is addressed. The doctors? God? Your baby? Lewis? It makes you shudder with revulsion at your own vulnerability, at your open display of desperation. It reminds you too much of how you got here in the first place, and how jarring a contrast there exists between you and all the women who consider this to mark the most joyous day of their life. Amidst the pain, you marvel at how unfair it is. All of it.

"Again, Olivia. Ready? One, two, three!"

You claw at the underside of your legs, fingers slipping over a film of perspiration as a pinched scream bruises your throat. Chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, you clench your eyes shut and prepare to tear yourself apart once more, but just as you suck in a breath, you feel yourself losing strength, vision blackening around the edges. _What's happening?_ You try to ask, but your voice feels like it's floating somewhere far away, far beyond your reach. The piercing shriek of a monitor calls the doctors into action, a messy blur of arms and faces bustling above you. You blink once. Twice. Each time, the image above you gets more and more hazy, another hundred miles away. On the third blink, you can't open your eyes anymore.

There's movement. You sense that much as you fade in and out of consciousness, clinging to the distant vibration of wheels against smooth tile. Your next moment of semi awareness comes when the vibrations have stopped, and there's a brighter light threatening to penetrate your eyelids. It's too bright and you wish it would stop, but another part of you wonders if this is the infamous light that people talk about when referring to death. It wouldn't surprise you at this rate, but you feel an explosion of fear at the very thought. It hits you all at once, the cruel irony of the predicament. It's almost as if the forces of evil had conspired against you, leading up to this one moment. Essentially, you realize with an acrid bitterness, Lewis is killing you. This can't be right. You weren't supposed to be afraid. If this was death, you wanted no part of it.

 _One, two, three,_ you hear, and then you're being moved again. It's not the gentle vibrations of last time, but instead a feeling of weightlessness. Like you're being lifted. As consciousness ebbs and flows in waves, you catch small snippets of the words being tossed back and forth above you.

 _Mother._

 _Heart rate._

 _Crashing._

But none of them slice you quite as deeply as hearing the two simple words that stop your world:

 _Fetal distress_.

All at once, your internal debate about fear versus love is quashed into oblivion as your heart leaps at the threat. Desperately, you fight the oncoming waves of darkness that threaten to pull you under again, urging yourself to stay awake. Alive. If not for yourself, for the life that holds to yours, clinging to you for all hope of existence. Panic overtakes you as you feel yourself slipping despite the fight. The sounds are getting further and further away, just like your strength. Your clarity. And inevitably, your baby.

If you had the strength to cry, you would do it now. Unreservedly, unabashedly. You would scream your tearful pleas to the powers that be, begging to save the one thing that suddenly matters more than anything else in the world. More than your own life. You would purge yourself of endless apologies, emptying all your words of love to the son you're almost certainly leaving behind. You would tell him how sorry you are for being afraid of him. Tell him that you realize now that he is the sun and the moon, and not a cursed reflection of the monster that comprised half his DNA. You would tell him how, now, you would do anything to change the last nine months, but nothing to change having him. He is yours, not his. He is all yours and you love him more than words could ever explain. Somewhere deep inside you, you always have.

In your last moments of fleeting lucidity, a collage of nursery colors and baby books flash before your eyes. Until this very moment, you had been painfully apathetic to all of it. You would do anything to have those moments now. Disheartened, you realize you never even decided on a name. Elliot. Johnathan. Noah. Nicholas. The mantra of options dances before you eyelids as you slip into the final stages of darkness, all sound zipping out of your awareness. With your final breath of life, you hope that he, no matter his name, will enter the world feeling all the love you can throw into the void.

And then your world forfeits to nothingness.

* * *

 _Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

It's the steady rhythm of the heart monitor that pulls you back from the sea of blackness, easing you onto the shore with gentle hands. One second passes to another, each bringing the gift of increasing clarity as your senses begin settling in around you. Your sense of touch is next, your nerves prickling with familiarity at the plush fabric against your cheek, the sharp line feeding into your veins, the vague roughness of a calloused hand beneath your fingers. The last one tips your balance, a brief flash of fear radiating from your chest at the unsuspected touch. But much to your surprise, your heart settles beneath your ribs, instinctively trusting of the presence in the room, though you can't yet put your finger on it.

You suck in a deep breath and revel at the feel of fresh oxygen in your lungs - a commodity of which you had been deprived during-

The thought stops you short, reeling back the memories with jarring ferocity. Your baby. The complications. The blackout. Instantly, your heart rate picks up speed, evident in the increasing beeps from the monitor that had lulled you back to awareness. Suddenly, the grip on your hand releases, only to reappear at your forehead, pushing away at damp strands of hair.

"Olivia, hey," the voices beckons to you, and your heart seizes, mouth going dry.

Almost involuntarily, your eyes flutter open, pupils straining against the harsh hospital lighting. Above you, the silhouette of a face offers you a mild reprieve from the blinding whiteness, and as you squint your eyes, a pair of familiar brown eyes come into focus.

"Nick," you croak, wincing at the stab of pain that comes with speaking.

He brushes his thumb once more across your forehead, flashing a smile that appears to be barely contained. It radiates with relief.

"Hey, Liv. I'm here," he whispers, the unmistakable glisten of tears in his eye, "I'm here."

The shock is enough to overwhelm your senses into speechlessness, enough to momentarily make you forget what it was that made you run all those months ago in the first place. For a moment, you simply stare back into the comfort of your family as you grapple for words that escape you.

"How...?" You manage, and he slides his hand into yours once more.

"You still have me on file as your next of kin," he explains, running his fingertips over the back of your hand, "They called me as soon as things went south. I got here as fast as I could."

His words summon a stab of pain, both physical and emotional, as flashes of your ordeal come rushing back to you. Where was your baby? How long has it been? He said he had gotten there as fast he could, but it's at least a few hour's drive from his place in the city to your local hospital upstate.

"My baby," you whisper, voice welling with untamed emotion, "Please, where is... Is he okay?"

You shake with fear, unshed tears glistening at your brims. You are almost too afraid to hear the answer, and it occurs to you how wild it is that so much can change in less than a day's time. Nick's mouth twitches at the corners, his hand gripping tighter to yours.

"He's perfect," he smiles, and relief floods into your veins like a euphoric high. It's all you can do to keep from sobbing as the first tear spills down your cheek and drops onto your papery gown with a splash.

"Where is he? I want to see him," You repeat, attempting to push yourself up but falling back with a cry of pain as your abdomen screams in protest.

Nick lays a gentle hand on your shoulder, easing you back against the mattress.

"Hey, hey, relax," he soothes, "You get to see him soon, I promise."

Scoping out the source of pain, you lift the sheet and push your gown aside, just enough to reveal the red-stained bandages along the lower line of your stomach.

"There were some complications," Nick answered your confusion without prompting, "They had to do an emergency C-section. By the sound of it, Liv, you barely pulled through."

You consider this for a moment, your eyes wide and distant. When you meet his eyes again, the concern is back.

"But he's okay, right?" You confirm, and he almost chuckles at your insistence.

"Yes," he promises, "He's fine."

Deciding he was telling the truth, you relax your shoulders and settle into the mattress, attempting to process the disorienting series of events. After a few minutes of pin-drop silence, Nick speaks up from your bedside again.

"Your baby..." He begins, eyes fixing on yours, "He's...?"

You nod. His question doesn't require further vocalization. Nick knows enough to put the pieces together. His gaze betray this much as tears threaten their appearance for a second time.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He squeezes your hand emphatically, careful to keep from bordering on accusational, "Why did you disappear like that? I would have been there through it all, I would have helped you. We all would have."

But you simply shake your head.

"I was scared," you tell him, hoping it would be enough to pardon an eight month absence, but knowing it never could be, "When I found out, I didn't... I didn't know what I wanted. It felt like the walls were closing in, so I did the only thing I know how to do."

His eyes lower at your words, heartbreak apparent in the meekness of his touch.

"You ran."

Another minute of silence passes. Neither one of you can find words to fill in the devastating gap of time.

* * *

You press your fingertips to the cool glass that separates you from the nursery of sleeping infants. Four rows deep, lines of tiny plastic cribs fill the volume of the room, each containing a different miracle. Different colors, stories, backgrounds. But your eyes only see one.

From behind the cruel barrier, your chest aches with longing. To touch, to hold, to smell. Despite the distance, you already feel so connected to the tiny life behind the glass, the fragile bundle of blankets and warmth that puffs in and out with each passing second. You have never witnessed a more beautiful function of human life.

The fear in the pit of your stomach isn't gone. Like the eye of a storm, its presence lingers in the shape of promise, of wreckage to come. When your eyes trace over the delicate lines of your son's face, even from a distance your mind taunts you with suggestive recognition. The sloped nose and wide jaw ring true with your conjured image of personified fear. When he finally opens his eyes, you're sure you will find tiny flecks of golden dust among the inevitable brown. Your heart thuds against your chest, and you close your eyes against the defeat that knocks on your door. You've spent the last eight months on your own, struggling through the worst depression you've ever felt. You've broken and shattered a million times over, and frankly you feel unequipped for the task at hand.

You feel so close to your mother for the first time in your life. This fear, this crippling, paralyzing ache in your chest... It's everything she felt in all the years she lived with you. The very thought is enough to have you close to packing your bags and running. Again. Far, far away, where you can't be hurt and more importantly, where you can't hurt him. The fear that trumps all is the fear of becoming to this precious, perfect child what your mother was to you.

A slight movement stops you mid thought, all attention zeroing in on your child's tiny mouth as it stretches open into a yawn. You watch as its tiny muscles twitch around the mouth and eyes, adjusting to the new sensations of life on Earth. Without realizing that you have been crying, you feel the hot tear drops splash onto your lap as you break down in the empty hall, alone in your wheelchair. The simple gesture from the infant has brought you to your knees. As you slide your fingers across the glass, you recall the words of the woman who had arisen in you as you took what you had thought to be your last breath. The mother. This baby - wonderful and perfect and full of life that you gave - does not belong to the monster whose actions had summoned him into this world. He is no more like William Lewis than what you are to your father. One look is all it takes to see the worlds, the galaxies, that separate the two.

Life has never come at you in expected ways. It's always curveballs and lemons, dodging bullets and running away. Every good thing that you've ever latched onto has been ripped away, one way or another, arriving at your doorstep like ticket to the promised land and leaving you broken like a city left in flames. It is with this realization, and a cynical twist of irony, that you allow yourself to hope that this might work out. That the one delivery that comes dressed as your worst nightmare might turn out to be your wildest dream.


	2. Chapter 2

**_AN:_ I don't even know what prompted this. Okay, I kind of do, and it's called "She Used to be Mine," aka an amazing song from the musical Waitress, and I would highly recommend listening to it as you read because... fitting. I never intended for this story to be more than a one shot, and I'm not saying this will or won't continue, but I had to get these ramblings out of my head and onto paper, so here's this little update in the life of my first and only AU Olivia Benson. **

* * *

_It's faint but there, like the lingering pulse of your sanity: that dreaded second line. You stare at the drugstore pregnancy test for a solid minute before it begins to sink in, and when it does, it's like acid in your veins. The burn spreads across your body with promise, threatening to consume you whole. A wave of dizziness crashes over you, and you squeeze your eyes shut and grab for the sink, but the attempt at balance is unsuccessful. You can't bear the weight of this revelation, and neither can your legs apparently because they are caving in beneath you. You're crying by the time your knees hit the tile, clutching the tiny stick against your chest._

" _Please, no," the breathy prayer spills from your lips over and over until the words bleed together in an incoherent song, "Please, please, please."_

 _You are desperate, devastated. And you're not sure who you're praying to at this point. All you know is you would do_ anything _to uncover the screen and see that this was all just some sick figment of your imagination. That the faint double blue line is just your worst of fears wielding their power of suggestion. Because surely even_ your _life can't be this cruel._

 _A knock at the door startles you so much that the plastic stick rattles to the ground, and you quickly snatch it up and cover your mouth, as if the sound alone would give away your secret._

 _"Liv, are you okay in there?"_

 _Brian's voice is enough to shatter you all over again. You slap your other hand over your mouth for reinforcement, fingernails digging into skin as you try and hold back the shriek that wants so desperately to claw free._

 _"Please open the door, babe. Let me help you."_

 _But there's no helping you now. You can't breathe. Your whole body trembles from the effort of concealing your sobs, and there's a ringing in your ears that makes the room spin. This can't be real. This can't be happening._

 _"Olivia?"_

 _Your mind races with panic as you hunt for a place to conceal the dreaded object in your hands. He can't see. He can't know. This thing - this awful, nauseating creature growing inside you - is not Brian's. Of this much, you're almost positive. You scramble onto your hands and knees in front of the cabinet beneath the sink, ripping open the doors and shuffling through the contents as quietly as you can with trembling hands. A bottle of bleach topples over, causing you to flinch back at the sudden crash. Brain's knocking persists._

" _What was that?" His voice comes through the door, raised in panic, "Are you okay?"_

 _But you don't answer him because you finally find what you are looking for. Without hesitation, you reach all the way to the back of the cabinet, pulling out a small, zippered cosmetic bag. It's the last remaining bag of items you inherited from your mother - outdated lipstick and sentimental jewelry, things of that nature. Somewhere Brian would never think to look. As you pull back the zipper, the irony of what you're hiding and where you're hiding it hits you like a freight train, and you can't help but crumble at the thought. How fitting that this positive pregnancy test has earned a spot amongst the tangible connections to your mom. But you don't allow yourself another moment to think about how disappointed she would be or how disgusting every part of this is. You don't have time because after the incident with his gun a few weeks back, Brian will only hold off for so long before he goes for the key, and you'll never forgive yourself if he finds out like this. You have to hide. You jam the test deep into the bag and toss it back into the corner. You replace the fallen bleach bottle and click the cabinet doors shut, falling back against them with a thud. You draw your knees to your chest. Tears spill over when you close your eyes, tilting your head against the edge of the sink, and as time rushes back to you, a review of absolutes fall into place in rapid succession:_

 _You are pregnant. You are carrying your rapist's baby. You know this because, unlike Brian, your rapist never bothered with protection. He didn't need to because he was planning to kill you all along._

 _And suddenly, you wish he had._

* * *

You squint at the digits on the clock when a shrill cry jolts you from your sleep. From across the room, the green numbers dance out of focus, so you frisk the nightstand for your glasses and slide them onto your nose. 3:34 a.m. Your head hits the pillow. The groan you attempt comes out as more of a whimper, and with every bit of strength you have left, you resist the urge to break down and join in the crying. Instead, you grit your teeth and push yourself up on weak limbs - the same routine you performed just thirty minutes earlier.

Exhaustion has encompassed every part of your existence. Weeks of eluded sleep haunt the rims of your eyes, painting your face sunken and frail. Which seems fitting because it mirrors exactly how you feel inside. The nightmares haven't stopped. If anything, they have spiked since your brush with death at the hospital, making what little sleep you manage nothing short of torturous. And it shows. You walk around like a zombie most days, eyes dark and detached and lacking the lusterful joy of the average new mother. The therapist Nick encourages you to see tells you it's completely normal for rape victims to feel re-traumatized by the birthing process and all that follows. You're tempted to tell her that, somehow, this sense of "normalcy" does little to bring you comfort.

As you approach the rail of Zara's hand-me-down crib, you pause and take a breath, taking a moment to ground yourself. Mental preparation. You feel like a terrible mother when the dread seeps in, but you've come to realize that much of the natural, healthy facets of motherhood are hidden triggers for you. It wouldn't be the first time the prolonged clinging of tending to a hysterical baby or the intrusive contact of breastfeeding is enough to overwhelm you into a panic attack. But you do it. Every night it's the same: you suck it up and endure. For him.

"Hey, Noah," you whisper as you lean over the crib, scooping the writhing bundle into your arms, "Mommy's here. It's okay. Mommy's right here."

Noah Nicholas Benson. You chose the first name after reading some feel-good story in a magazine at your doctor's office one day. It was about a female detective who rescued an orphan from one of her cases and later adopted him. His name, of course, was Noah. There is something about the story that always stuck with you, corny as it is. It was almost like looking through a window to an alternate universe. A glimpse of a life that could have been. Had your life not taken a quick turn down a one way street to hell, it occurs to you, that could have been you. But it did, and it's not, and instead you are here, in this semi-constant state of catatonia, where all the bright and hopeful promises that come with motherhood are dark and painful reminders of your own failures. Like right now. His screams are deafening in your ear and you have no idea how to make them stop. The sound is enough to hammer away at your shot nerves, and you bite the inside of your cheek as you bounce him, silent tears of frustration welling in your eyes. When the door cracks open behind you, you turn without breaking your rhythm. A tired looking Nick greets you from the doorway, sporting plaid pajama pants and a stained t-shirt.

"You got him?" He asks, and you know his intentions are pure, but you can't help but bristle at his question. _"Planning on having a mental breakdown this time?"_ He probably wants to ask. Though the subtle reminder of your own shortcomings stings, you can't blame him for his concern. Not after the numerous midnight sessions that end in Nick lifting Noah from your arms as you shake and cry and try to bring yourself out of the latest episode.

"I got him, Nick," you try to smile and fail miserably, "Go back to sleep."

"Eh, it's okay," he shrugs, leaning against the bedroom wall, "I wasn't sleeping anyway. I can take a shift with little man if you want to catch a few more minutes."

It's tempting, you admit. But a quick inventory of the situation tells you his diaper is still fresh and your aching breasts remind you that you haven't nursed for a few hours.

"Thanks, but I don't think this is one you can help me with."

"Ah," he nods, "You don't have any more bottles in the fridge?"

"Used the last one earlier," you remind him with a yawn, covering your mouth with your free hand. His yawn that mirrors in response is involuntary, and the two of you share a tired smirk at the exchange.

It's been three weeks since you were released from the hospital, and three weeks since your partner opened up his home to you. You could not be more grateful if you tried. It had taken all of one night alone with Noah in your tiny, uptown apartment, sobbing and sleep deprived on the kitchen floor as you tended to bleeding sores on your breast and Noah wailed beside you, before you took him up on his offer. It was clear you are in no shape to face this monster alone, and he had been more than willing to step up to the plate. His spare room had opened up when Maria took Zara to live with her in DC, yet another development you missed out on in your time away, and Nick tried his best to convince you the new arrangement is mutually beneficial. _"I'm not acclimated to living without a female in the house,"_ he joked, _"Who's going to tell me what to do?"_ You fully suspect this was for your benefit alone, but you're grateful nonetheless.

Ever since, he has taken it upon himself to completely blow you away with generosity. He acts almost as a co-parent, taking turns rocking your son to sleep, feeding him, changing his diapers. He claims that he genuinely doesn't mind it, that it takes him back to Zara's baby days - blink and you miss them, he says. The cynic in you wants to believe that this, too, is only for your benefit. An even darker side of you wonders if he secretly resents Noah for everything he represents. Everything he comes from that caused you so much pain. You almost let yourself believe this until one day last week, when everything began to shift. You had just finished collecting yourself from the aftershock of a bad nightmare when you walked in on them. Nick was rocking Noah back to sleep when you approached the doorway, so fixated on the baby in his arms that he didn't even notice you peeking through the crack.

" _Noah Nicholas,"_ his voice had dripped with endearment, _"You have your mama's eyes, do you know that?"_

The statement was simple, something people say about babies and their mothers all the time, but it changed your mind. His sentiments, thinkingly unseen, had been so pure, and it just clicked. That he does not think of Noah as an extension of the man who hurt you. He never has. He sees that Noah belongs to his mother, and he loves him for it.

Like you said… you couldn't be more grateful.

"Since you're up, do you want me to make some breakfast?" Nick offers, scratching at the stubble on his jaw.

"Nick, it's 3:30 in the morning."

"3:40," he corrects you, "Besides, it's never a bad time for breakfast. Noah seems to agree."

But you can't even muster the energy to return his smile.

"I'm not hungry," you say flatly, not missing the concern that flickers in his eyes as you turn away.

"Are you okay...?"

"I'm just going to feed him and try to go back to sleep," you stop him, lacking the energy for any big conversation right now. He gets the hint and backs into the hallway.

"I'll give you some privacy," he says, closing the door behind him, "If you need anything, don't hesitate."

You're sure you will.

Once you're alone, you take another deep breath before grabbing the small, rubber stress ball from the shelf and sitting down in the rocking chair beside the crib. You soothe the crying infant with a hushed voice as you slide the strap of your tank top off your shoulder, letting the material fall forward. You're already sore, so you cringe when he latches on, clamping down on the stress ball with your left hand. Repeating the squeezing motion over and over, you try to keep yourself present while you nurse, just as your therapist instructed. Remember that the feeling of exposure is a natural part of feeding your son, and that the small pinches and bursts of pain are different from those that left scars in the same places nine months ago. Lewis isn't here. You're safe. Your son is safe. The sudden reprieve from the wailing is heaven on your ears, so you choose to focus on that instead as you push your feet against the floor, rocking the two of you back and forth.

There had been no magic transition for you after giving birth. You didn't hold your baby for the first time and some angel's chorus fell from the sky and sang their blessing that everything was going to be okay now that you are a mother. Motherhood is hard. It is even worse when you are balancing it with PTSD from an assault that you never sought proper help for. The doctors throw around words like "postpartum depression," but you're not sold on that diagnosis, because what they fail to understand is that this is simply a continuance of... pre-partum depression? At this point, the levels of your mental instability are indistinguishable, and the clinical terms they keep using imply that there's a foreseeable end when you're fairly convinced there is not.

You are constantly reminded of the cruelty of nature. How something as devastating as being raped can result in pregnancy, which in turn results in a long-lived series of invasive procedures, loss of personal space and a general sacrifice of self. Your body becomes a vessel for another being, an incubator for this tiny life that suddenly holds more value than your own. All it takes is five minutes at a Planned Parenthood protest to realize how the world views pregnant women. Machines. Objects. All things detrimental to the healing process of a victim who is trying to earn back ownership of her body. But that can't matter now, you tell yourself. _You_ can't matter. If there is one point your mother wanted you to remember in all her drunken ramblings, it was that motherhood means sacrifice. She never let you forget all that she gave up to raise you.

And she must have been terrified. It was a different time and she was a different person, but you feel that you understand her now more than you ever wanted to as you stare into the face of your son, tiny slits of brown peeking up at you. You have to wonder if your mother ever felt the way you do when you look at your little bundle. Like the entire world has been placed in your palms without an instruction manual, and you're left on your own to figure out how to keep it turning. Unequipped doesn't feel like a strong enough word. But he's here now. Just like that, he has entered the world and your life, and maybe it's not what you asked for, but this is where you are. You have a baby. In your arms, he looks so small and helpless. And God help you - you're all he's got.

* * *

"Olivia."

When you wake again, there's a soft voice repeating your name. You blink away the sleep to find Nick standing over where you sit in the rocking chair, and a moment of panic hits. You bolt upright and frantically search for Noah, remembering the last memory you have of feeding him in the chair, and you're suddenly convinced you have dropped him or suffocated him or-

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Nick tells you, putting his hand on your shoulder to calm you down, "Noah's okay, he's asleep in his crib. You must have fallen asleep before you could make it back to bed."

You let out a breath and sink back against the chair, feeling your heart rate make its decent.

"But there's someone at the door for you," he says, his expression giving away that he is just as confused as you are. As far as you know, no one besides the hospital knows of your current address.

"It's a woman," he continues, "Looks official. She says she will only speak to you directly."

And your heart jumps inside your chest again. You have no clue who it might be, but his words are foreboding. Regardless, you push yourself up and grab a sweater from the closet, glancing over at Noah's sleeping form for your own reassurance. Nick follows closely behind as you trudge to the front door. The woman you find there is unfamiliar in her blazer and pencil skirt, but her eyes seem to scan over you when you open the door.

"I'm Olivia Benson. Can I help you?" you fold your arms. She holds out an envelope, one you've seen a million times before in another life, and smiles without emotion.

"Ms. Benson, you've been served," she says.

You reach for the paper, but before you can ask any further questions she turns and walks away. For a moment you stand there, stunned. When you step back into the house, Nick is waiting across the room, not bothering to conceal his eavesdropping. He looks as wary as you feel when he shifts his glance from your face to the envelope in your hand.

"A subpoena?" he asks, "For what?"

You don't know, and you're terrified of find out, but your hands move anyway, making quick work of unfolding the blue papers. When you peel open the final section, you catch a glimpse of the bold print across the top and your world begins to spin.

 _No._

You feel like you're going to pass out.

"Liv?"

"No. No," you whisper, bringing a hand to your mouth.

"What is it?" Nick asks again, but his voice is coming from a million miles away this time, and you reach out for the wall to keep from falling over. All the while, your eyes zero in on the bolded letters that threaten to drag you to hell. Nick takes a step toward you, but you shoot him a look that warns him not to come any closer. He listens. Your world is closing in by the second.

"He. H-he," you swallow hard, struggling to force the words out, "Lewis. He's suing me for parental rights."

Nick freezes.

"He's what? How?" He exclaims, but you can't even begin to answer his questions. Not only because you don't have the answers, but because you can feel yourself getting lightheaded, your breaths becoming shorter and shorter, and you know it's only a matter of time before hyperventilation takes over. Your hands tremble so badly that you struggle to hold the papers without dropping them.

"No," you repeat, because it's the only thought, only syllable, you can manage. And just like that, you're tossed back into the same desperation that drowned you on the bathroom floor roughly seven months ago. In that moment, you couldn't have imagined anything worse than finding out you were pregnant with a child your rapist forced on you. Today, life proves you wrong. The worst thing you can imagine is having that child taken away.

"Okay, hey, why don't we sit down for a second," Nick approaches with raised hands when you look like you might collapse, "I'm just going to help you walk to the couch, alright?"

You're in a daze as he wraps an arm around your shoulders and leads you to the sofa, easing you down onto it. The earth continues to falter beneath you, even as you sit. He sinks down beside you.

"Can I see them?" he asks, gesturing toward the papers in your hand. You hand them over without looking at him, your limbs moving robotically. You hear indiscernible murmurs to your right as your partner skims the paperwork, but you're still frozen in place, unblinking. Unmoving.

"It says he wants weekly visitation rights for the duration of his prison sentence," his voice betrays an angry tremor when he finally reads out loud, "To be re-evaluated for full or partial custody at the time of his release."

The words spark something in you that shake you from your trance. _His release._ It's something you've thought about every day since the moment you watched him be packed away in the back of an ambulance outside the beach house. The thought of such a thing, even in the abstract, is jarring.

"He can't do this," Nick is quick to assure you, speaking with a lot more confidence than what shows on his face, "Okay? He can play this game with the legal system, but there's no judge in the world that will grant him rights to your son. There's no way."

But that's just it - you know that's not true. Even putting aside the fact that Lewis manages to get on the winning side of every endeavor he pursues, you have both seen this happen before. It didn't end well.

"Avery Jordan," your lip quivers with the weight of your reminder. It takes only a second for him to recognize the name, and you see the change in his eyes when your words sink in.

"No," he counters, "Liv, that's not what's going to happen here."

"That's exactly what's happening here," you gloss over his empty promises, "All it took was one juror who believed her rapist's story, and then he was free to go after her. At that point, he had no problem gaining access to her baby, because he was never actually convicted of rape."

Suddenly, it falls into place for him - what you're getting at - and the realization steals his breath away.

"And neither was Lewis," he whispers.

It is the internal war you fight everyday inside your mind. The guilt. The shame. After fourteen years of dragging women through the process of a trial, you ran away from your own, and now it could cost you everything. For a moment, and against your will, your mind conjures what it might feel like to watch some mousy social worker place your son in Lewis's arms, while you watch helplessly from the other side of a prison visitation room. You can see the scene so vividly, as if you are living it now. You see Lewis in an orange jumpsuit, staring you down with the same eyes that leer at you in your worst memories and nightmares. You watch as he cradles your baby against his chest, shooting you a twisted smile when he leans down to plant a kiss on his head.

You want to throw up.

"This is all my fault."

"Hey, stop," he shakes his head, "This is not your fault. Any of it."

"I ran," you counter, "I told myself that it wouldn't matter if I never took him to trial for everything he did to me, because they had enough to put him away without my help. I thought my charges couldn't make or break his conviction when he was already facing double murder, so I ran away. Because I knew that if I-"

You break off mid sentence, the twisted irony of what you are about to say slamming into you hard enough to elicit something between a sob and a laugh.

"I knew that by time the trial rolled around, I would be showing…" you trail off, leaving Nick to put the pieces together.

"And Lewis would know."

You let your gaze fall unfocused as fresh tears make their home in your eyes.

"And now he does," your voice breaks, "And I should have known he would find out whether I went to trial or not, because he always finds a way to hurt me. Now I've opened myself up to this, and there is nothing stopping him from staking claim in his... _parental rights_ ," you cringe at the wording, "I have no one to thank but myself."

"That's not…" he trails off, desperate for words that could even begin to untangle this mess. He finds none, but it doesn't matter because now you're standing, walking wordlessly away from him. Your shaky legs manage to support you all the way to the bedroom as Nick calls after you, following behind. You barely notice him, though, because your only focus is on the infant sleeping in his crib. Careful not to wake him, you scoop up your son and cradle him to your chest, pressing your mouth to his forehead in a grounding kiss. The need to hold him tight is suddenly urgent, as if he will disappear from your sight at any moment. When you inhale his scent, your tears spill over. It is the scent of familiarity. Of home. Despite every self doubt, every minute of lost sleep, and every midnight breakdown, his presence grants you with something you've never known. A shred of hope that something so beautiful can blossom from a broken and barren ground. He is the only person that's ever truly belonged to you, and you may not be the best mother, but you're sure of one thing: you would do anything for him. You would die for him. He does not belong to that disgrace of a man who shattered you to pieces. Though your life is but a pile of broken fragments, for him, you would sharpen every edge. You would turn every last piece of yourself into a weapon of protection.

When you turn to Nick, your eyes spill tears and shoot daggers simultaneously, fear and determination duking it out for top contender.

"He can't do this," you repeat his words with conviction.

Even if it takes what little you have left, there is one absolute from which you will never back down: William Lewis will never lay a hand on your son.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Disclaimer: For all my research, I'm probably still going to miss a few marks on the legal technicalities of this story. So hang in there and I'll try to make it as realistic as possible. Lol. This chapter jumps around a little bit, filling in some pieces of the past and present, so hopefully everything is clear. I would love to hear your feedback. Thanks for reading.**

* * *

The building on the corner of the block seems much taller than you remember. It's been quite some time since you ventured downtown, and the bricks that tower over you now feel almost as menacing as the task at hand. A shaky exhale deflates your lungs as you stare up at what was once a familiar structure, hoping for some moment of clarity to fall over you. As if you could walk in the footsteps you tread a thousand times in another life and suddenly feel a spark of the person you used to be. But even as you put on a brave face and stride through the doors, nodding to the security guard you know by name, none of it seems to fall into place. Everything is wrong. Your usual blazer-and-dress-pants combo is discarded for jeans and a hoodie, your hair tied back in a loose ponytail, half of which has wiggled free in swooping tendrils around your face. You are a different person walking in. But the gnawing inconsistency that separates you from the Olivia Benson of nearly a year ago has nothing to do with the physical discrepancies. The biggest difference is the angle from which you approach the office: Not as a cop. Not even as the victim you were last time you saw the inside of these walls. This time, you're the defendant.

Your phone buzzes against your side as the elevator climbs to the 24th floor, and you reach into your purse to find a text from Nick.

 _You make it there okay?_

 _Just got here,_ you type back, _Thanks for watching Noah for me_.

He responds immediately, your phone buzzing one last time in your hand before the elevator doors open.

 _Anytime. I'll be here when you get home. Good luck._

You suddenly feel like you need it. You march down the hall with all the bravado you can manage, feeling underdressed and underprepared among the business suits that pass you by. When you approach the double doors at the end of the hall, you nod to the receptionist behind the desk. She recognizes you immediately and smiles, gesturing toward the office.

"He's ready for you," she says.

 _That makes one of us. Y_ ou thank her and force your legs to carry you forward. It's been nearly a year since you stepped through this door, and the weight of the gap and all that lies within makes your stomach erupt with fluttering nerves. But you swallow hard and push in anyway, heart skipping when you spot him across the room. He's already standing when you enter, facing out the window. When he turns around, his expression lightens instantly, and you think it's the softest you've ever seen his eyes. The door clicks shut behind you.

"Olivia," Barba greets you through a smile, "It's so good to see you."

* * *

"Your old ADA is representing you on the custody case?"

You pick at the unused tissue in your lap - a nervous habit you've developed since starting therapy.

"Yeah," you rip off another piece, watching it float onto your pant leg, "It'll be his first time at the defendant's table in years. Pro bono, of course. I could never afford his services otherwise."

"Nice to have friends in high places," she comments. You shrug.

"Perks of the job, I suppose."

Doctor Pomatter eyes you the way she does whenever she is skeptical of something you're saying - a look with which you are very well acquainted by now.

"You don't sound thrilled," she notes.

"I'm about as 'thrilled' as anyone could be under the circumstances, I guess."

If she's offended by your cold tone, she gives no indication, smoothly pushing the conversation forward.

"If he's as good as you say, do his skills instill any more confidence about the outcome?"

You have to laugh. Confidence is one thing you can honestly say you haven't felt about any of this.

"At this point, I try not to get my hopes up," you tear the remaining square of tissue down the middle, "He's good, but…"

"But what?" She tilts her head like she's onto something.

"Nothing," you shake your head, "I don't know. He's the best. And I know he cares about me. But I can't help but feel like he's doing this out of some misplaced guilt."

"Guilt?"

You nod.

"Over Lewis. I think he feels he's partially to blame for what that happened to me last Spring."

"Do you feel that way?"

This earns her a look. The first eye contact in minutes.

"What? No, of course not."

"Then what makes you think he does?"

You chew on this for a moment, calculating the simplest answer in your head.

"Because he was on the case Lewis got released from," you remind her, "And because I've been in this line of work for a long time, so I know how it goes. The victim isn't the only one who suffers. Everyone finds a reason to blame themselves. Barba, my partner, my boyfriend… _ex_ boyfriend."

"Ah," she raises her eyebrows, clearly surprised at the mention, "Brian."

"Yeah."

"You haven't talked about him much in our sessions," she comments, and you can tell it's an invitation down a path you're not sure you want to walk.

"What's there to say?"

"I imagine there's plenty. You tell me."

When it's obvious she has no intent of relenting, you sigh and reach for another tissue, picking it apart from the corner.

"What do you want to know?"

"Do you keep in contact?"

"No."

She purses her lips at your curt responses.

"From what you've mentioned, he was still in the picture when you were abducted, is that right?"

"Yeah. And after, for a while," you pause, looking up at her briefly to emphasize your point, "It's not like he abandoned me or anything. It wasn't like that."

"What was it like then?"

You shift your focus back to the much more appealing task of peeling layers of white apart.

"Complicated. Messy."

 _Like everything else in your life._

"Was he the one to initiate the breakup?"

"No."

"A mutual agreement?"

You swallow.

"No."

"So it was your decision," she nods, "Why don't we start there? Take me back to when you decided it was time to end things."

Surprised to feel the oncoming sting of tears, you let the material slip from your fingers altogether. When your silence carries on, you see her shift in your peripheral vision.

"Olivia?"

"When I found out I was pregnant," you whisper.

She sits back in her chair, but you don't look up from your lap.

"How did you know Noah wasn't Brian's?" she nudges.

You can't help but cringe, a shudder running through your body as you remember the horror had you felt, even in your drunken state, as Lewis bypassed any form of protection. Even against the heavy threat of your own demise, the fear of getting pregnant by him had been consuming.

"I have my reasons," you mutter.

"Alright. I believe you," she assures you, "So it was instantaneous then? You knew you immediately that you wanted to end your relationship?"

"I…" You stumble in the dark for words that might begin to express the chaos that lived in your head at the time, "I don't know what I wanted. I wasn't sure I even wanted to keep... I didn't know. Anything, really."

"How did he take the news?"

The question catches you off guard, and you squirm in your seat.

"About the pregnancy? Um," You clear your throat when your voice cracks, "He didn't. I never gave him the chance."

For all her years of therapist training, Dr. Pomatter doesn't hide her surprise at this confession very successfully.

"He... doesn't know about your son?"

You bite your lip and shake your head, feeling the guilt resurface. She lays her notepad on her lap and crosses her legs. Now you've really got her attention.

"Olivia, can you tell me about the last time you saw Brian?"

* * *

 _"Liv, please. Just talk to me."_

 _He's all but chasing you down the hall as you storm from the living room, headed for the safe retreat of a locked door. The need for space is urgent, but more importantly, you need privacy to rid yourself of the evidence on your phone that is burning a hole through your pocket._

 _"It's none of your business," you toss over your shoulder._

 _"You are my girlfriend. I thought you were my business."_

 _This stops you, and you spin around to face him in the doorway, watching as he slams on his brakes to stop from running into you._

 _"What, I'm your girlfriend so I sign away any right to privacy?"_

 _"That's ridiculous," he says, and you know it's true, "You know that's not what I mean. I'm not like that."_

 _"Well, you're kind of acting like it."_

 _"Or maybe you're just turning this around on me to deflect from the question."_

 _Correct._

" _Shouldn't that give you some sort of indication that maybe I don't want to talk about it?" Your voice is nearly as sharp as the daggers in your eyes. He almost barks back with something just as snappy - you can see it in his eyes. But he stops himself, visibly reigning in his attitude for a softer approach. He pinches the bridge of his nose._

 _"What am I supposed to think here?" He reasons, "First you start disappearing for hours at a time, then I see you fielding the mail and taking secretive phone calls, and when I ask you about it, you get defensive and shut me down."_

 _You take a step back, crossing your arms over your chest. "You think I'm cheating on you or something?"_

 _"What? No!"_

 _"Then what is it?"_

 _"I don't know," He throws his arms up in defeat, "That's why I'm asking you."_

 _You shake your head, far too tired for this conversation._

 _"Please, can we just drop it?" you soften your voice, letting the exhaustion seep through into your expression. He closes his eyes like he might actually give it up, but when he opens them again, he's staring at you intently. Begging._

 _"Olivia, I'm trying my best here," he pleads, "But you've gotta give me something. I don't know how to help you."_

 _"Maybe you should just stop trying. This mess isn't…" a lump catches in your throat as you remember the way the faded blue lines stared up at you, and you realize just how true your words are, "It isn't going away."_

" _I don't expect it to just go away," he reaches for you, but you pull away, pressing yourself into the wall, "I would love more than anything to take it all away and make it so that none of this had ever happened to you. Believe me. But I know it's not that easy. I'm in this for the long haul."_

 _A humorless laugh escapes you._

" _You have no idea what you're saying."_

" _I do," he insists, "I want to be here for you."_

And for the bastard child growing in my stomach? _The thought sends you spiraling all over again and you hold onto the wall for support._

 _"Please, Bri," you whisper, "I just need some time alone right now."_

 _"Are you okay?" His tone shifts, eyes scanning over you, "I don't know if I feel comfortable leaving you like this..."_

 _"Relax, you've hidden all the guns already."_

 _Brian recoils as if you have slapped him and your regret is immediate. You know you've crossed a line, but you're too far gone, too full of the dark and void spaces to muster an apology._

 _"Liv, don't. Please, don't say things like that."_

 _"Look," you rub a palm over your eyes, "If you don't want to leave me alone, then I'll go somewhere else."_

 _But he catches you before you can brush past him._

 _"No, wait. I'll go, okay?" He relents, though the defeat in his voice is anything but satisfying, "You can stay here. Get some rest. I could use the fresh air anyway. I'll be back in a couple of hours."_

 _You don't look up from the floor._

" _Thank you."_

 _Though you don't see him, you can sense that he is contemplating something by the way he hovers, finally resolving with a sigh. He steps forward and kisses you on the head, his hand flattening into the back of your hair as he does._

" _I have my phone on me," he tells you, "If you need anything…"_

 _"Yeah. I know."_

 _As he pulls back to leave, you grab his hand at the last second, but it's not a loving hold. It's a vice grip. Clinging for dear life. Tears well in your eyes when he turns to you._

 _"I'm sorry," you whisper, the words filled with more weight than he knows._

 _He takes a step closer and raises your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. There's something so tired about the way his eyes fall shut. He is exhausted._

 _"I know," he drops your intertwined hands, brushing his thumb across your knuckles, "It's alright, Liv. Everything's going to be alright."_

 _You blink up at him and nod, even though you know the roots of his promise are planted in unknowing soil._

" _I'll be back in a little while, okay?" He says._

" _Okay," you echo flatly, watching him leave until your tears blurs the image completely. Because you know what you have to do now._

 _He promised he would be back, and you know he means it. He always comes back. No matter how hard you push him in the opposite direction, you can always count on him walking through the door at the end of the day. He stays, you run. It's who you are. And it's exactly why he is too good for this mess. Too good for_ you _. You can see it playing out in your mind - the toll this would take on him if he stayed. There is not a doubt in your mind that he would step up to this plate, even if it wasn't in his ballpark. He would stay. For you, for the thing growing inside you. He would support you in any decision you made. It's effortless to picture him holding your hand in an abortion clinic or a delivery room, or working insane hours to support you through the pregnancy. You can imagine how the bags under his eyes would grow impossibly deeper from the strain. Most vividly, you see him holding a baby, rocking him to sleep as you watch the ever present glimmer of doubt that would inevitably make its home in his eyes. You can't understand how he could love it, but you know doubtlessly that he would try. He would tear himself apart trying to love a scar that wasn't his to wear, and you can't let him do that._

 _He will return. You know this for a fact. So you'll do the best - the only - thing you can think to do for him: you won't be here when he does._

* * *

" _Mediation?_ " The room starts to spin as you clock his expression, making sure this isn't some sort of sick joke, "You mean you want me to sit across a table from him?"

Barba raises his hands in what you're sure is meant as a calming gesture, but it does nothing for your rapidly climbing blood pressure.

"His attorney will be there," he assures you in a low, steady voice, " _I_ will be there. He can't touch you, Liv."

"I know," you snap, "That's... I'm not _afraid_. But what you're asking me to do is ridiculous. You expect me to chat it out like we're old friends? Some sort of lover's quarrel?"

You suppress a gag at the thought.

"No. But this is a good first step in custody cases," he reasons with you, "It will show any judge you're willing to try-"

"I'm not."  
"-It will show the judge that you're the cooperative parent if this goes to court."  
You stop mid pace, pivoting in his direction.

"If?"

" _If_ we can't strike a deal at mediation," he says, "That's what it's for, to weed out cases from going further."  
"I know what it's for. But I don't think you understand," you take a step toward his desk, "There is no deal to be made. There will be no compromise. He is not seeing my son. Ever. End of story."  
Barba inclines his head, looking up at you through hooded eyes.

"You know it's not that simple," he tells you, "I wish it were, but until the law catches up with us, you have to be realistic here."  
The word sets you off. You push back from the desk.

"Realistic? He _raped_ me!"

Barba flinches at your words, eyes softening to something uncomfortably like pity.

"I know that. Trust me, I know that," he pauses to compose himself, flattening his palms on the wooden desk, "But you know as well as I do that the goal of children's services and family court is almost always to unite the-"

You scoff, a hand covering your mouth in disbelief.

"To unite the families?" You finish the mission statement that you know by heart, "Really, that's what we are calling this? A _family?"_

"The optics, Liv," he joins you in standing, "The technicalities. You know how this goes. You've seen it. It doesn't matter what really happened - It's the court rulings that are absolute, and in your case with Lewis… He was never officially convicted as a rapist."

You swallow hard, a piece of your anger breaking away to make room for guilt.

"I know."

"I'm not blaming you," he backs off, almost sincerely enough to believe him, "I can't imagine what you were going through at the time, what you're going through now-"

"Please," you stop him, expressing your inability to hear another person in your professional life give you the victim speech. This is devastating enough as it is. He seems to understand, and this relief gives you just enough space to find some clarity among the chaos in your mind. You take a cleansing breath before opening your eyes. "So there's no way around this?"

He presses his lips together, eyeing you cautiously before he responds.

"Not if you want to keep things from getting messier," he says, "This is our best shot right now."

You sink down in the leather chair across from him to show some sign of cooperation, but mostly because your legs seem to have taken on the consistency of jello.

"And what exactly does this 'shot' entail?" You ask, wary of the answer, "What are the _realistic_ options I'm looking at?"

He hesitates.

"Weekly visitation?" He suggests.

"What!?"

"We may be able to talk them down to monthly," there's that calming gesture again, "given your hectic schedule if you return to work."

You think you might be sick.

"Hold on. I would have to see him once a month?" You ask, terror expanding in your eyes. Your chest already feels tighter at the thought, remembering what it's like to be trapped in a room with William Lewis. It's a level of hell you never wanted to relive, let alone on a weekly basis.

" _You_ wouldn't have to. You can have an agreed upon third party facilitate the visits…"

"No," you shake your head, hunching over in your seat, " _No_."

"Olivia, I am so sorry," he speaks softly, moving to occupy the chair next to you. You feel a hand on your shoulder and you don't pull away because you barely register the contact. It's as if a hurricane has come in and swept you from the room in every sense but physical. And you're drowning. It's killing you.

"None of this is fair," he continues, "I will fight as hard as I can for you, you know that. But I'm afraid there is no miracle solution here."

Of course not. There never is. Though you would hardly consider an ounce of reprieve from this nightmare _'miraculous.'_ Just a sip of ice water amidst the flames of hell.

"When does this start?" You ask without lifting your head.

"I'll talk to his lawyer and get the meeting set up as soon as possible," he tells you, then hesitates before speaking again, "But you know we can't move on with this until…"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

* * *

As crazy as it might sound, you never had a paternity test done. Though the truth is irrefutable in your mind, there is something about the prospect of seeing the results in black and white that terrified you. That made it real. If your life has taught you one valuable lesson, it is to always expect the worst and let the rare best case scenarios surprise you. Even though you have grown to accept the nature of Noah's conception, your mind seeks refuge - no matter how minuscule or admittedly unorthodox - in the slim chance that he isn't Lewis's. There may not be a fiber of your being that actually believes it, but without scientific results, you could hold onto that tiny shred of hope for as long as you wanted. The power was in your hands. Ignorance isn't bliss, but sometimes it is the only thing that keeps you breathing. Now with Lewis's subpoena, that power is stripped of you. You have no choice. A court ordered paternity test is part of the deal, and just one more way for him to wield control over your life. You don't want to think about how much he probably gets off on this extension of your torture.

"You're shaking," Nick comments from the hard, plastic chair beside you, and you jump at the sound of his voice, "Do you want my jacket?"

"I'm fine," you reply, because the tremors that wrack your body have little to do with the frigid air in the clinic's waiting room.

"You know, no matter what these results say, nothing changes," he reminds you, "Noah is still 100% yours. Paternity doesn't mean fatherhood."

 _Yeah, but court ordered custody might have something to do with it._

"I know I'm not telling you anything you haven't heard a million times in the last year," he follows up, "But if you ever need the reminder, I'll always be happy to give you a million more."

You attempt a smile.

"Thanks, Nick."

"Noah Benson," a lab tech in green scrubs calls out from the doorway, shattering your nerves all over again. You take a deep breath and press your lips onto the sleeping infant's head, shooting Nick a panicked look as you stand. He pushes up beside you.

"Want me to go back with you?" he offers, but you shake your head.

"I'll be out soon," you assure him.

"I'll be here."

It feels like a death march as you cross the room, shoes clicking against dingy tile. This is where it begins - the first step in your uphill battle. As you carry your child through the doorway and hit the wall of cold sterility on the other side, you can't shake the feeling that you are walking him through the first threshold to hell.


End file.
